


221 Days of 221B

by jemariel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson Is An Idiot, Angst, Caretaker John, Casefic sort of, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Ficlets, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Science Experiments, Sherlock's Violin, Showers, Sick Sherlock, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today's summary: Sherlock needs to know how John feels about him, truly. And all emotions are chemical reactions. So the answer lies in chemistry. Obviously.<br/> </p><p>My goal is to write one ficlet per day for 221 days, in the spirit of 221b if not precisely the letter. Sticking to 221 words is hard so most of them will be somewhat longer. All will be Johnlock, but they will jump around in time, tone, and canon compliance. Tags will be added as they become relevant.</p><p>Mostly this is my kicking myself in the pants to start writing again, but I thought I'd share for the fun of it. I'll also be posting on my tumblr, jemariel.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleepy Morning Delays

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my happy writing space! Pull up a chair, have a cup of tea, and enjoy. :)

“Morning,” came Sherlock's muddled voice from the hallway. John turned from his breakfast preparations and grinned at the sight that greeted him: Sherlock’s hair in a riotous halo of unkempt curls, his eyes gummy with sleep and barely open, dressing gown gapping open over...nothing. Not even pants.

“Good morning,” he said. “I thought you’d sleep for an age.”

Sherlock just shrugged one shoulder, coming right up and leaning into John’s chest. John wrapped his arms around the taller man and held tight.

“I’ll miss my train,” John said after a minute. Sherlock just grunted and nuzzled at the side of John’s neck, his ear. John sucked in a breath. That, along with the sleepy heaviness and warmth of a mostly naked Sherlock in his arms, was definitely going to make him late for work.

“You want toast?” he asked, drawing his arms back and trying to drum up some willpower.

Sherlock shook his head. “Want you to come back to bed.”

“I’ve got work.”

“Call out.”

“You’re a bad influence.” There was no denying which sounded like a better way to spend the morning: at home in bed with a long, lanky, naked genius, or dealing with the annual November outbreak of sinus infections and sore throats.

“Please…” Sherlock sighed in his ear. He sounded somewhat more awake now and much more...aware. John shivered, and when Sherlock caught his lips in a series of sweet, increasingly heated kisses, John felt his meager resolve crumbling. To hell with it.

In the end, John caught the second train, the one that got him to the surgery huffing and hurrying but not technically late. Sherlock, meanwhile, ate the toast John had forgotten about, and went back to bed.


	2. Sick Sherlock, Caretaker John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is ill. Caretaker John, Vicks vaporub, and a line crossed.
> 
> ::coughs:: Ok, so... Sticking to 221 words is much more difficult than I thought it would be. So here, have the equivalent of about 4 of them. Huzzah!

“What do you mean there’s no train ticket? There has to be a train ticket! How could you be so --” The rest of Sherlock’s rant dissolved into a fit of coughing so severe John took the phone from him, muttered some apologies to Lestrade, and rung off. Sherlock growled in annoyance between the horrid coughs. It felt like his lungs were trying to make a grand escape, and from the disgusting gobbets of phlegm that kept coming up, they were doing a fine job of it. Stupid body.

“Ring him back,” he barked at John. The imperious tone was rendered less so by the hacking that caught the last word.

“No,” John said. “ You need to rest. They’ll figure it out themselves for once. You get back on the sofa.”

“But Jooohhhnnn…” Sherlock was NOT whining. He wasn’t. Never. “They’re completely imbecilic.” Regardless of his protests, Sherlock did find himself sinking back into the nest of duvet, fleece, pillows, and used tissue that had been his bed for the last four days. He would of course deny the sigh of relief that escaped him as he sank his aching head into the cool pillow.

John was there again, worming the end of a stethoscope between the layers of blanket and dressing gown to press the ice-cold end against Sherlock’s sweaty chest. He gasped, which induced another coughing fit. He didn’t even have the energy to get in a jibe about that.

“Well it isn’t pneumonia yet,” John announced after a long moment during which the stethoscope warmed considerably. “But I’m forbidding you to work on this case until your fever breaks. I’ll text Lestrade, tell him he’s on his own.”

Sherlock just closed his eyes. He was shocked to find that that was… a relief, really. Being ill was exhausting.

After a few minutes - or it could have been an hour, really, it was difficult to tell - Sherlock felt John’s weight sink down on the sofa next to his legs. He heard the sound of a cap unscrewing, and then hands pulling apart his crossed arms, laying open his dressing gown. The smell of menthol, camphor, and eucalyptus tingled Sherlock’s nose.

“What’s that?” he croaked.

“Vicks. Lay on your back.”

Sherlock shuffled until he was more or less on his back, cracking an eye open to see John scooping up a liberal fingerful of gooey, strong-smelling ointment.

His heart thudded as he pulled the edges of his dressing gown farther open. This was not exactly the circumstance in which he’d hoped to find himself baring his chest for John’s touch. He tried to ignore John’s firm, strong fingers applying the rub to his skin, focusing instead on the soothing odors and cool tingle of the medicine. It wasn’t difficult. It felt marvelous. And if he gave a little moan at the hot touch lingering over his pectorals, well… that could be attributed to relief as well.

“Feel better?” John’s voice was a little bit rough as he pulled his hands away. Hopefully he wouldn’t catch whatever Sherlock had, though given their general proximity that was probably inevitable.

Sherlock nodded, his eyelids drooping. Another weak coughing fit caught him as John stood to wash his hands, but it was fainter, shorter. Sherlock could feel a fog of sleep edging in around his mind.

John’s footsteps, deliberately quiet. Sherlock didn’t open his eyes or even move. John bending over him, one hand on the back of the sofa, the other taking a crude measurement of his fever. Cool hand, felt good. Then it was gone. John wasn’t though. Sherlock could feel him hovering there, though for the life of him couldn’t guess what he was doing. Observing, maybe? Not hard to deduce that he was ill; that much was perfectly plain.

Then John shifted with deliberate slowness, and Sherlock felt a light pressure, the gentle sound of lips, and a puff of breath stirring the curls on his forehead. His heartbeat raced and he drew in a sharp breath.

“Sshhhhhh,” came John’s murmur. “Just stay asleep, ok?” It was the barest whisper, like the kiss. Sherlock could have just ignored it. Instead he found himself nodding his head, cracking one eye barely open for a second to get a glimpse of John’s face. His sweet, rumpled face, tan long gone but still beautifully weathered, and now so close to Sherlock's that he could… if he wanted to… lean up and kiss him back. And he did want to. Had wanted to for ages. Why the hell would John choose NOW to stick a toe across that line? Now, when Sherlock could barely move, could barely think?

Maybe that was it. If he didn’t respond, John could blame the illness, and keep whatever hopes he harbored hidden away for later exploration.

Well sod that.

In spite of the fever, in spite of the phlegmy feeling coating the back of Sherlock’s throat, in spite of the uncertainty hammering in his chest, Sherlock leaned up those last few inches and pressed a kiss to John’s lips.

It was brief, but it was bright. And when Sherlock laid his head back down, eyes wide open now, it was to see John beaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at marxian-harps@tumblr.com! "d


	3. Bored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one feels a bit "season 1" to me. You know what I mean?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Sherlock.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Sherlock.”

Tap. Tap. Tap – 

John reached across the table and snatched the rubber ball away from Sherlock before he could catch it again. Sherlock gaped at him, an open-mouthed expression of outrage. John just put the ball in his pocket and returned to staring at the blinking cursor that mocked him from the editing page of his blog.

A few seconds of blissful silence, and John thought Sherlock might have actually returned to writing up case notes for Lestrade, just as John was supposed to be writing up the same case for a more general audience. But clearly, this case was resisting both of their efforts at summarization, because after a moment John heard –

Thump. (Lifting the edge of his laptop and dropping it now, the twat.) Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Sherlock!”

“URGH!” Sherlock finally snapped, jumping up from the table and whirling around the sitting room. “This is useless. I've solved it, the woman's in jail, why do I need to explain myself any further than I already have?”

John sighed, leaned back in the chair and scrubbed at his face. “All you have to do is write down what you told them last night. That's all. I'm the one who has too –“

“To what, John? To embroider romantic details onto my seamless rationale and reason?”

More like edit out the romantic details, John thought. He couldn't stop pondering the revelations of that particular stakeout, lying thigh to thigh in a dusty attic through the wee hours of the morning, and public blog with a growing readership of strangers was NOT the place to do it. He needed to move. Needed to think. Properly.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting some air,” John said shortly.

“John.”

He stopped. He couldn't say what it was that made him stop this time; a week ago he would have just kept going and let Sherlock swallow whatever barb he had at the ready. But he stopped, and turned.

There was a special kind of softness to Sherlock's face, a vulnerability that he hadn't seen before – or perhaps just hadn't bothered with, hadn't noticed. He was blinking, biting his lower lip. “I meant what I said.”

John sucked in a breath, swallowed. Nodded. “Me too.”

A tiny smile crossed Sherlock's lips. Relief. He stepped closer. “We could... try?”

Anxiety clenched in John's gut. This was dangerous. So very dangerous. But then... when had that ever stopped either of them? He took another step to meet Sherlock in the middle of the room, and suddenly he had to look up a lot more to look the tall bastard in the eye. Now they were sharing air, sharing space. Sherlock bent, John stretched... and there was no going back.


	4. The Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stakeout, a child's secret hiding place, a conversation they never thought they'd be able to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops this one got long. Oh well! It's the weekend!

“I'll never get the dust out of my coat.”

“This was your idea, Sherlock. Don't come crying to me.”

“She should have been back hours ago.”

“Well... maybe she stopped for a pint?”

“Don't be stupid.” Sherlock shifted, trying to restore some bloodflow to the lower half of his body.

“Careful!” John snapped. “You're going to push me off the plank, you twat.”

“Sorry.”

Silence. It was cold. And dusty. And cramped. They had no choice but to lay close together on a piece of plywood near the access hatch, pink insulation on either side between the beams. The slanted roof was a bare foot and a half above their heads, all that separated them from the January chill. Sherlock glanced at his phone. 2:52 am. When they'd broken in here it hadn't even been midnight, and Sherlock had definitely expected their suspect to return in short order bearing the evidence they needed. The plan had been to drop in, as it were, unexpected, but that idea was looking more and more ludicrous as the night wore on.

“So,” John said with a little cough. “You didn't happen to bring a packet of crisps or anything, did you?”

Sherlock pinched his lips and said nothing. Just wrapped his Belstaff tighter around himself and shivered.

“Right. Didn't think so.”

John shifted, turning on his back so that their shoulders pressed together. Sherlock took some comfort in that warmth. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

“Any idea how much longer we might, er, be here?” John asked.

“Your unspoken question is will I give up on this insanity, and the answer to that, John, is no,” Sherlock snapped. “Not until we have our evidence. If my deductions are correct, and they are, then she will return tonight with the credit cards in hand and we can be at the end of this whole affair.”

John sighed. “Fine. Well then. I've got an idea. Get up a bit.”

It took a good deal of awkward shuffling, but eventually they wound up with John's coat underneath them and Sherlock's Belstaff spread out on top, arms flopping over their shoulders. Sherlock relaxed back down and had to admit, this was warmer. Especially when John's hands pulled him closer by the shoulders and – he really was warm. Very warm. Thankfully in the dark there was no way John could see his cheeks pink up.

“There. Now at least we won't die of hypothermia.”

Sherlock hummed a noncommittal noise.

They stayed like that for a long while. He could smell John – a day's worth of body odor, not unpleasant in the slightest; the lingering traces of his shampoo, deodorant, laundry detergent; the bacon butty he'd bought from that dodgy cart because 'Some of us need to refuel, Sherlock.' Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, just enjoying the warmth and proximity.

“Hey.” He started at an indelicate poke to his ribs. “You're not falling asleep on me, are you? You need to be awake when what's her name gets home.”

“Jeanette Simmons.” Sherlock answered. Of course he hadn't been sleeping. Not at all. “You usually encourage me to sleep.”

“Yeah but not on a stakeout in a freezing attic. C'mon. Talk to me. You can usually run your mouth, and it'll keep both of us awake.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed. “And what do you suggest I talk about?”

“I dunno. Deduce the previous owners of this house from the way dust settles or something.”

Sherlock looked around. It was dark, but... “Well...”

“Come off it, I was kidding. What can you actually tell from an attic?”

Sherlock grinned, and wondered if John could see it in the dimness. “You'd be surprised. The dust on this plank had been disturbed recently before we arrived, and there were clear square patches that had very little dust accumulation at all. Therefore used as a storage area for something currently in use. Given the time of year probably Christmas decorations. The current owner hasn't bothered to pack them away yet. Also there are traces of graffiti on the boards above our heads, done in colorful permanent marker. The colors and patterns indicate a young, female hand. The marks are faded so clearly not a current occupant, probably a child in the previous family used this as a secret play-space. Furthermore –“

“Pull the other one.”

“No, look –“ Sherlock turned on his phone's flashlight, wincing in the sudden harsh glare. “You can see here – pink flowers, purple spirals, rainbows, glitter on everything. Clearly a young girl's artistic endeavours.”

“Oh yeah. Huh. What's this though, eh?” John pointed to a bit of writing further up the beam. “'Ricky 'hearts' Ted 4 Ever.' Down there too. Seems to be a bit of a theme, actually...”

“Ricky and... Oh.” Sherlock put down his phone, restoring the darkness. “There's always something.”

“What? Not a young girl then?”

“Probably not.”

Silence fell, and a weight of melancholy settled in Sherlock's stomach. Possibly Ricky's family hadn't approved. Probably he'd come up here to hide away his secret in shame. Perhaps this was the only place he'd felt safe enough to confess his feelings. Sherlock wondered if he'd ever mustered up the courage to bring Ted up here.

“Did you ever have a place like this? When you were a kid?”

Sherlock nodded, crossed his arms over the ache under his ribs. “The far corner of the back garden. It was hidden from the house by some shrubbery, just a little patch of grass and a corner of a brick wall. Eventually I grew tall enough that I could see over the walls, and then climb over them, but as a child... I just hid there. When everything was...”

“Too much?”

“Yes.”

Quiet again. Sherlock was wide awake now, but wished with all his might that Jeanette Simmons would get back and let them leave this place, this close intimacy in the dark that somehow made it easier to say, to feel, the things that welled up inside him. He tried to keep his next words behind his teeth where they had been safe for so many years but –

“I had a, um. I had a Ted, too.”

“What?”

“His name was Victor. We shared an English class and he sat right in front of me. I don't think I remember anything about English from that year. I haven't thought of him in ages; why would I? It was an adolescent crush. But I used to hide in the back garden and look at his picture in the school papers. He was captain of the swim team, so he was in there a lot. Once I... I wrote our names on the wall just like this –“ he pointed up at the beam “– just to see how it felt.”

“...And?”

Sherlock drew in a breath. “It felt... good.”

“But...”

“Mycroft found it. Of course.” There was bitterness in his voice now, he knew it. “That was my first lesson in the dangers of sentiment. He told me that I was different enough without this, and if I was just going to cause trouble then I should stay away from attachment and feelings entirely. Better to be alone than –”

Suddenly Sherlock found John's arms around him, tight, clutching. He heard John's rough breathing right in his ear, not sobs, not wet enough, but... rough. Too startled to move, Sherlock didn't quite return the embrace. He was tangled and pinned by clothing and the awkward angle anyway. But he did take the risk of burying his face in John's neck and breathing deeply there for just a moment. Just a moment. And then John pulled away.

“Sorry – I'm sorry, just. Yeah. I get it.” He cleared his throat and shuffled, pulling the coat back into place over them and seeming to retreat into some shell.

They were quiet again for a long time, a tense kind of quiet that felt to Sherlock like the air around them was about to break. He didn't think John would judge him harshly for this revelation; he wasn't the most liberal of men but he wasn't THAT type. But he felt adrenaline coursing in his veins, wondering what else might be in the cards. Definitely not in danger of falling asleep anymore, though now he desperately hoped that Jeanette Simmons would be just a little bit later, would not interrupt this – whatever this was.

“Mine was in the shed,” John said at last. “I had a whole quarter of it to myself, it had been my playroom since I was a kid. Harry wasn't allowed, of course. Smelled a bit like our dog with poor bladder control, but –” he shrugged “– it was mine. When I got a bit older I chucked out all my old toys and things and dragged a mattress in there. And I had –”

John's voice broke. The silence stretched, Sherlock loathe to break it.

“I had this friend. Jonathan. Yeah, I know, there were a lot of Johns, alright? Anyway. He would come over, we'd been mates for ages. And we – well. It was just experimentation, alright? I'm still not even sure if I... if I wanted _him_ or if I just wanted to snog SOMETHING, but. But it wasn't. I mean.”

“John, you don't have to--”

“My dad caught us.” Rough voice now, sharp, clipped words, tension in his fists palpable from where Sherlock lay two inches from him. “He went mental. Threw Jonathan out the door and... yeah, I was in trouble. Couldn't sit down for two days. And that was absolutely the last time I talked to Jonathan. Wasn't allowed, couldn't risk it after that. And the worst?” John was on a roll now, the words tumbling over themselves. “Not even six months later he catches me down there with a girl. I don't even remember her name, but he bloody winks at me, and just left us to it. Like 'good boy Johnny, now you're on the right track. Go get her skirt up.' What kind of father does that?”

John stopped like a plugged sink, scowling. Sherlock put a tentative hand on John's arm, ready to retrieve it at the slightest twitch of unwelcome. There was none. So he reached further.

“I'm not gay, Sherlock.”

“No, you're not. Obviously.”

“... But.”

“But.”

“... But I'm not straight either.”

That was probably the first time in over 20 years that John had even allowed that thought to cross his mind, much less his lips. Sherlock nodded, the lump in his throat not allowing him to speak.

Then John was shuffling closer, which was far and away the last thing Sherlock had expected. His eyes opened wide. He pressed the whole length of himself to Sherlock, nudging his head under Sherlock's chin, arms still crossed over his chest like he had to protect himself _some_ how. Sherlock opened his arms and took him in. So much bravery in moving those few inches closer.

“I've never done this,” John whispered. “Not with a man.”

“Neither have I.”

“Do you... I mean. Are you even... interested? In... any of it?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Not... usually. Not with most people. But.” He tightened his arms and _willed_ John to get the message.

There was a huge sigh, a rush of hot air against Sherlock's collarbone. Then John's arms were unwinding from where they crossed between them, one coming around Sherlock's waist to rest in the very center of his back, the other wedging itself under his ribs, squashed tight to the plank.

There was no telling how long they stayed like that, pressed together from knee to collarbone. Sherlock could feel their hearts thudding against one another, hard and quick. One of John's legs got tangled under Sherlock's and that was marvelous. They had to shift to stay even remotely comfortable on the hard surface and Sherlock wound up with his head nestled into John's shoulder – the one with the scar but John didn't seem bothered. The smell of John was stronger here, and Sherlock found it calmed his nerves somewhat. He pressed closer to breathe deeply.

“This is going to be a little awkward when Jeanette shows up.”

Sherlock was shocked to find that he'd completely forgotten about the case. He stirred, lifted his head to check his phone. 3:43 am.

“You sure this is the right house?” John asked.

“Positive.”

At that exact moment Sherlock's phone bleeped. A text from Lestrade.

Where are you guys? Caught Simmons hours ago. Need your statement for the records.

Sherlock just blinked at the phone for a heartbeat or two. Then John burst into a fit of giggles and Sherlock couldn't help but follow him.

“Well. This was an absurd waste of time, then.” John said as the last of the giggles subsided.

“Oh I wouldn't say that. Not entirely.” Sherlock risked a bit of flirtation in his grin, pitching his voice low in a way he hoped would – yes, have exactly that effect. John looked up at him and didn't exactly shiver. More like... squirmed.

John smiled, nodded again. “Yeah. I guess not.”

There it was – the opportunity was right in front of them. They were so close, he could just lean up, lean in. It felt good, it felt right, but – fear was a collar around his throat holding him back. The door was open now. It didnt mean they had to walk through it yet. Yes. Later. There would be time.

“C'mon,” John said. “Let's see if we can find an all-night curry, I'm starving.”

Stiff, sore, and stumbling, the two men made their way down out of the attic. Neither was sure who clasped the other's hand first as they waltzed out the front door, but Sherlock held tight. Those old places were behind them; their shared future beckoned.


	5. Violin in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wondered if staring at the hole was any better than staring at the chair.

221b was quiet. There was the rain on the pavement outside; the light through the windows was silver and dim. Quiet. Sherlock stared at the empty space in front of him, at the hole left by a recently removed piece of furniture.

So quiet.

He wondered if staring at the hole was any better than staring at the chair.

He stood, suddenly restless. In his email, no cases interesting enough to pull him from this dim gray flat. Experiments in the kitchen to be poked at, examined, some data scribbled down. Nothing exciting though. No tremendous revelations. Nothing new. His phone: no texts. Well. One unanswered invitation out for a beer with Lestrade from two days ago, but needless to say that didn't count.

Nothing.

His eyes alighted on his violin case, and he blinked at it. He hadn't – not since the wedding. Could he now? Could he trust his fingers not to break his heart? He closed his eyes, and saw himself in the exact spot where he had just been standing, only now the room was brightly-lit and warm, with red curtains drawn, soft music playing, and John Watson –

No.

Sherlock snatched up the violin case, determined to prove himself wrong, to conquor his memories. He would play, and he would play something else. Something light. Something airy. Bach, perhaps. John had always liked Bach.

Not Bach then.

Once tuned and rosined to satisfaction, Sherlock stood at the dim gray window, fingers and string to bow... and felt them fall toward the aching, familiar pattern of Dr and Mrs Watson's Waltz.

He snarled at the wood under his hands and nearly threw the bow across the room. Stupid. So stupid.

The dimness gathered around him, the violin back in the still-open case, and Sherlock in his armchair, staring at the empty space where a red chair used to be.


	6. Operation Drive John Mad Part1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drives John mad in compromising positions.

Picture this: Sherlock Holmes on his back, with his long legs high in the air, arching up and over his head. His arse presented magnificently. Sweat shining on his chest and lower back. Arms out to a T on either side. Eyes closed, an expression of ecstasy on his face, his breathing deliberately deep and heavy. Every now and then his lips parting in a groan.

This was the sight John Watson had to endure when he came home one sultry late summer afternoon. He almost dropped the shopping in the hallway.

“What - exactly are you doing?” He tried not to let his voice squeak. Only marginally successful.

Sherlock’s legs fell back down to the mat. “Yoga. What does it look like?” Then he planted both feet, his knees spread just so, and pressed his hips up. His supple spine curved in a graceful arch, buttocks tightening, toes curling in the carpet --

Jesus.

John wrenched his gaze from the spectacle in tight shorts on the sitting room floor. “Well, I’ll just. Leave you to it.” He tried to escape through to the kitchen. Milk to be put away. And then a shower. Yes. A long, very cool shower.

“You could join me if you like.”

Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t you even dare, Watson.

“It’s an excellent...release.” The man let out a sigh that was positively pornographic and pushed his hips higher. Sod this, why had John looked??

“No, um. No thanks. Just gonna… go wash up.” And John retreated to the bathroom, not realizing he’s put the milk in the cupboard and not the fridge 

Sherlock dropped the position, grinning up at the ceiling. Operation Drive John Mad was going to be brilliant.


	7. Anderson's an Arse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs into Anderson at an inopportune moment. He's in no mood for his theories.

Cabbages, brussel sprouts, aubergine… tomatoes, there they are. Cross off list. Now, where do they keep the carrots…

“John! John Watson, isn’t it?”

John turned and blinked into a familiar, if not entirely welcome, face. “Oh. Anderson. Fancy seeing you here.”

The past year had not been kind to Anderson. He’d grown an unkempt scraggle of a beard and there were more lines around his eyes than John remembered. More gray in his hair too, though John could hardly speak of that one. Most disturbing though was the gleam in his eyes, the manic tilt to his grin.

“So good to see you. Listen, I’ve been meaning to track you down actually --” and wasn’t that a bit disturbing “-- I wondered. I’ve got some theories, and.” Anderson licked his lips and leaned in conspiratorially. John tried not to recoil at his breath. “I was wondering… If you had heard from Sherlock?”

John’s blood turned to ice. It took an extreme force of will not to drop his shopping and punch the man right then. “Um. No. In case you had forgotten, Sherlock is dead,” he forced through gritted teeth. This was the last thing he needed, to be accosted with THIS while he was just trying to do his shopping. Couldn’t he just escape from this for one moment and live a normal life?

“Oh come on John, please. You can tell me. Clearly he was too clever by half to let Moriarty trick him like that! And you, you were his other half, you must have known about it…?”

Sod this. “Look. He’s gone. I’ve had to accept it so you can bloody well accept it too. Now shove off.”

John turned, fuming. Good. Anger was good. Anger at Anderson, anger at Sherlock, anger at the cabbages, anger at the whole sodding world. Anger was definitely better than the black melancholy that he had finally shaken off. Mostly. It had been a good week anyway.

But Anderson caught him up. “Wait wait wait, I’m sorry. I know you probably can’t tell me anything, not outright. But look -- if you want -- if you can -- give me some sort of signal --”

“HE’S DEAD! ALRIGHT? Buried. Gone. Forever. No matter what. Now leave me the fuck alone!”

This time when John stormed off, Anderson didn’t trouble to follow him. Just called after him “I believe in Sherlock Holmes!” in a meek, warbling voice.

John shut his eyes tight and kept walking, not looking back.


	8. Sharing a Shower is a Good Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock felt no particular need for a shower -- apparently he wasn't overly fastidious after sexual activity. Interesting.

Sherlock was accustomed to the sound of the shower in the adjoining bathroom. But today it was different. Today, the door between the two rooms stood wide. Today he was laying naked and warm in a tangled mess of sheets, breathing in the distinctive aroma of his and John's exertions. He felt... open. Loose. And not just in crude, obvious ways. He felt like someone had taken a wrench and loosened the bolts of his joints by half a turn.

He heard a knock on the wall. “Sherlock? You coming?” came John's muffled voice. Sherlock grinned. He felt no particular need to shower – apparently he wasn't overly fastidious afer sexual activity. Interesting. But he rolled out of the bed anyway and slowly ambled into the bathroom.

John greeted him with a grin when Sherlock pulled back the shower curtain, his hair sticking up with shampoo. The water was steaming hot and oh that felt good. Perhaps John was on to something.

Before Sherlock could even get all of himself under the spray his arms were full of slick, soapy army doctor. His heart sped up and he felt himself smile. “Hello,” he said.

“Hi.” John was grinning back, pulling Sherlock under the spray with him. Sherlock let out a moan of pleasure as hot water sluiced over his skin, his hair. John leaned back against the wall, letting Sherlock relax into him, cheek pressed to John's damp hair. “Not so bad, eh?”

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was talking about the shower or their earlier activities. Didn't much matter. Either way, his response was the same. “Quite wonderful, in fact.” He pulled back just enough to look at John, mapping his face at point blank range: the lines, the shadows, the color of his eyes, the tilt of his lips. He wondered if he would ever tire of looking at John. At the moment, it seemed inconceivable.

“I love you, you know,” John whispered into the small space between them. “I know I said it already, but I wanted... y'know, it wasn't just because...”

Sherlock nodded. “I know, John. And I love you.”

He felt John's chest expand and relax as he took in, held, and released a deep breath. “Good,” he said. “That's... that's good.”

“Were you worried?” Sherlock asked. John shook his head.

“I suppose not. But. It's good.”

Sherlock nodded, then leaned in, relishing his new permission to be this close to John Watson. Their noses bumped a bit, and John's face crinkled in a broad grin. Then their lips met, smooth, soft, growing familiar. Sherlock's blood surged with emotion, feeling John open to the touch of his tongue. At long last, like a piece of a puzzle slotting into place, they could be as they should always have been.


	9. Operation Drive John Mad, part 2

“What do you think?”

John looked up from his laptop and did a blinking double-take. “Sher-- What?? Are you wearing?”

“A disguise, John. I thought that would be obvious.”

So much leg. So much long pale leg encased in sheer black stocking. Silver glittery pumps so tall John feared for the man's balance, though he seemed perfectly stable. That meant he'd probably practiced this. Fuck. John dragged his gaze up to – seriously?? – a tight black sequinned dress that was so short it hardly counted as a dress at all. As he watched, Sherlock did a little turn in place to show off the whole effect. John found he could not look away from the man's arse, perfectly outlined in the dress. How could a skinny man have such gloriously pert buttocks?

Nope. Shut up, brain, shut up.

“What exactly are you disguising yourself as? A prostitute?”

“So glad you follow. There has been a string of grisly murders among the sex workers of London; the police have been slow to provide any kind of assistance. One of the ladies from my homeless network brought it to my attention.”

“So your brilliant plan is to doll yourself up as the bait??”

“Do you have a better idea? NSY has swept up all the crime scenes without so much as a second glance.”

“You're not leaving the house dressed like that.” John cringed the moment the words were out of his mouth.

Sherlock's kohl-rimmed eyes widened in astonishment, and he laughed. “What? Who do you think you are, my father?”

“No, I – I'm your friend.” Leave it at that, Watson, just leave it at that. He could feel his hands shaking and his fists clenching. Just... leave it.

Now the detective's eyes narrowed, and John felt the familiar sensation of being X-rayed. _Oh, no you don't, Sherlock Holmes._ He stood and shoved his way past the tall man – even bloody taller in those ridiculous shoes – and god, was he wearing sodding perfume? Jesus Christ – and bounded up the stairs. The rafters shook at the slam of his bedroom door.

Sherlock grinned up the stairs after him, releasing the death grip with which he'd held onto the door frame to keep from falling. Of course he had a better plan than this. But oh, it was so much fun, to test the dear doctor's resolve. One day he would crack, and Sherlock had every confidence that the resulting fireworks would be well worth the wait. Until then, he planned to use every trick in the book to drive John right round the bend.


	10. Meeting John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woah ok so I lost momentum here. Back on the horse!
> 
> Sherlock's thoughts upon meeting John Watson. Special Guest: Molly Hooper.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker street. Afternoon.”

He’d winked. He’d actually winked at the poor man! And now he found himself sauntering down the hall with an irrepressible grin on his face. Sherlock stopped and worried at his lower lip for a moment. What on earth had that been about? He looked back at the door, now shut, between him and his prospective new flatmate. Flatmate. Was this really such a good idea? Insecurity extinguished his giddiness as he thought of the squalid little tenement he was vacating and the clutter that had already collected in 221b. He thought of his previous attempts at cohabitation: disastrous, every single one. But never quite as disastrous as living alone.

There was something… intriguing about John Watson. Army doctor, wounded in action, psychosomatic limp (which Sherlock was sure would only be the work of an evening to cure, unless he drastically missed his deductions). And attractive to boot...

Nope. Best not go to down that road. Nothing there but disappointment, pain, and weakness. Sherlock took the stairs down to the mortuary rather than the more heavily trafficked elevator, hopping over the last three steps of every flight in an attempt to relieve some nervous energy. John Watson. Potential flatmate. Army doctor. Attractive. The words swirled around in his brain, searching for landing spots and finding nowhere safe. By the time he reached the morgue he’d worked himself into a proper frenzy.

“Oh!” Molly dropped her pen, leaving a splotch of ink on her paperwork. “You’re back! I thought--”

“Just here for my riding crop, Molly, no need to fuss, and yes I did originally purchase it for use on the living, and no, I will not be testing it on you.”

Sherlock was gone, crop in hand, before he could even register the fascinating shade of Molly’s blush.


	11. Meeting Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's thoughts on Meeting Sherlock Holmes. Special Guest Mike Stamford.

“Yeah. He’s always like that.”

John stared, stunned, after the man who had called himself Sherlock Holmes. What the hell sort of name was that, anyway? But it fitted him. Bizarre name for a bizarre person.

“You having me on?” he asked Mike. “You sure you don’t tell him… anything?”

Mike’s smirk morphed into an open grin. “Didn’t have to. Look him up if you’re interested; you’ll see what I mean.”

John nodded, said his goodbyes to his old friend, and limped out of the building. If he stood up a bit taller and kept glancing around, looking for a flash of long coat or black curls, well… that was his own business.

Sherlock Holmes. The name was still spinning in his brain by the time he got back to his meager bedsit. A mysterious text on his phone to an unknown number, signed SH. Who the hell…. And more importantly, what the hell had John got himself into?

John was under no delusions about himself. He was not going to be a treat to live with right now. PTSD and depression in addition to his usual short temper, and with no job and no current friends he would be spending a lot of time at home doing nothing, contributing little. Fantastic. That sounded exactly like the way to impress someone like Sherlock Holmes.

Hang on. When did John decide he wanted to impress him?

Since you first clapped eyes on him, you dolt. And who could blame him? The man was… frankly gorgeous if John was honest with himself. It had been a long time since uni and his experimentation that had confirmed for him that yes, both sides of the fence appealed equally. But it wasn’t just that he was gorgeous, obviously fiercely intelligent, and pinged John’s gaydar like a beacon.

Nothing happens to me, he’d told Ella. His blog was full of that: nothing. His life had become one long grey smear of boring days, but Sherlock Holmes was like a splash of bright color. He was something, and that was a damn sight better than nothing.

John felt pathetic just thinking about it.

The fact remained though that he couldn’t stay here in this cardboard box of a bedsit much longer. It was killing him. So whether or not it was a good idea, he would soon be moving in with this larger-than-life stranger. At the very least it might give him something to put in his blog.


	12. Never Have I Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John play a childish party game to pass the time.

“Your turn.”

“Hmmmm. Never have I ever… been to Iceland.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tosses two of his rapidly diminishing Smarties into the dish. “It’s not my fault my parents had strange ideas of acceptable summer holiday locations.”

“I hear Iceland’s very nice, actually. Your go.”

Sherlock sighs. “What exactly is this the point of this exercise again?”

“It’s supposed to help figure out who is the most interesting person at a party.”

“There’s only two of us; I would hardly call that a party.”

“It’s also a way to pass the time until the power comes back on, so just… think of something, yeah?”

“Fine. Never have I ever… had a one-night stand.”

“Seriously?”

The look John gets from Sherlock at this is nothing short of venomous. John just grins and tosses in a small handful of his own Smarties. Sherlock’s eyebrows crawl up to his hairline but he says nothing.

“Alright. Never have I ever…” oh he can’t resist this one. It’s out of his mouth before he can think better if it. “Told you you have a nice bum.”

“That’s cheating. I would hardly have told myself that I have a nice -” and then Sherlock’s brain catches up with his mouth and his eyes go wide.

“Yeah but you’ve never told me I have a nice bum either have you?”

“How presumptuous.” There’s a splotch of pink high in each cheek and John nearly cackles with glee.

“Ok ok. I’ll think of another. Never have I ever… licked a dead body.”

“Honestly, that was one time!” Sherlock throws his Smarty into the dish with a huff. “And the data I gathered was instrumental to solving his murder.”

“Doesn’t really make it any less disturbing,” John says. Sherlock just slumps back in his chair with an air of impending sulk. His legs are canted wide open, one knee jogging back and forth, his hips damn close to sliding off the cushion. God, the things John has wanted to do to that man… whose eyes, John suddenly realized, are boring holes in his skull and who probably just deduced his every wanton thought and desire by following the path of his gaze. Whoops.

“Never have I ever… Slept with a woman,” Sherlock says, his voice pitched low and quiet. John’s heart thumps.

“Dunno if I have enough Smarties left,” John says, examining his tube. He tosses in most of the rest without really bothering to count. “Never have I ever…” he bites his lip, “slept with a man.”

Without a word and without breaking eye contact, Sherlock tosses in three Smarties, one by one. John swallows thickly. Not exactly a surprise, but to have it confirmed….

“Never have I ever been with someone I loved.” Sherlock’s voice is small, quiet, his eyes downcast, and John’s heart breaks a little bit. He drops in his last few Smarties without ceremony and chews his lip.

“Never have I ever…” God this is hard. Could he? Could he really? “Told you what I really want to tell you.”

His heart is hammering in his chest now.

Sherlock leans forward in his chair, and suddenly they are so close, barely six inches between their faces. In the dwindling twilight John can see the startling green-blue in the silver of his irises around an expanding pupil.

A grin splits his face. “You have a nice bum.”


	13. Never Have I Ever part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never have I ever continued. Sherlock is a braver man than John. The game comes to an end.

Sherlock is up and gone from the sitting room in a heartbeat, leaving John to laugh off some of the nervous tension. “That is definitely cheating, John,” Sherlock’s voice echoes from the kitchen over the sound of rummaging through drawers. “You already used that one.”

John gets his entirely inappropriate and probably rather cruel giggles under control by the time Sherlock comes back in with a bag of tea lights. He places the little candles haphazardly across the mantle and sets about lighting them. He avoids looking at John as he crosses the room to put more tea lights on the coffee table, and John’s not sure if he’s blushing or if it’s the warmth of candlelight after the fading blue of evening.

“You're right. I’m sorry. That wasn’t very nice.”

Sherlock sits back down, arranging his dressing gown around himself like it’s a regal robe. “It’s my turn,” he says.

“But I cheated. And I’m out of Smarties.”

“It’s my turn,” Sherlock repeats, with more insistence. John swallows and nods.

“Okay.”

Sherlock clears his throat and speaks clearly, still not looking at him. It’s as though he’s giving a lecture to John’s elbow. “Never have I ever... Confessed directly and without uncertainty the depth of my feelings for the man I would very much like to develop a deeper… A romantic relationship with.”

John can’t breathe. Sherlock is clearly a braver man than he.

“Sentiment has always been weakness. But. John.” He looks up for just half a heartbeat. Then away. “Through my association with you I have discovered previously unknown strength in myself. The possibility for compassion, empathy, kindness to weigh favorably against power, logical reasoning, or the pure pursuit of knowledge. With you… John… I am a better man than I was. And I cannot thank you enough for that.

“What’s more,” Sherlock continues, “I feel… what I can only describe as a desire to be closer to you, as close as possible. I miss you when you are not here. I crave your physical presence and your conversation. If I were to decide our future, the two of us would live together as a permanent arrangement, minus the second bedroom… for a lifetime.”

John is stunned. Floored. His hanging jaw will certainly soon attract flies. Or, if he’s very very lucky, detectives.

“Are you going to say anything?” Sherlock is looking down at the floor now, picking at a thread on his armchair with unnecessary ruthlessness.

John shuts his mouth and swallows. “I don’t know what to say,” he sighs. He sounds ragged and he knows it. “You heard what I said… At your gravesite. I was so… So alone, Sherlock. You have given me back my life, twice now. And I -- I don’t know if that’s exactly healthy but God. I can’t help it.” John slides off his chair and shuffles on his knees a few paces toward Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock is blinking very rapidly and clearly trying not to look at him for fear of what he will see. Probably waiting for John to drop the other shoe, the maddening wonderful idiot.

“I would very much like to kiss you right now.”

Sherlock gasps and finally meets his gaze. There is a tear welling over one eyelid, sparkling in the candlelight, and he nods profusely. “Yes.”

John leans in, bracing his hands on the arms of Sherlock’s chair. Almost a real embrace, so close. And leans in.

It starts slow, both men fearing that to press too hard will wake them up, shatter this reality and prove it a dream. Then softly, softly, they lean in closer to one another, and begin to learn the language of their kisses. Sherlock's lips are plush under his, soft and wide. John slides their lips together and it is heady, addicting, to be this close to him, all of his senses overwhelmed by _Sherlock_. At John’s first hesitant taste Sherlock’s breath leaves him in a rush that John can feel against his cheek, and Sherlock slouches back in the armchair as though he’s gone boneless. John can’t help it then. He relinquishes the armrests in favor of collapsing in top of Sherlock and wrapping both arms tight around him. 

Soon they are giggling madly and sweetly with their noses brushing and an occasional tear still welling in Sherlock's eye. They’ve overturned the dish of Smarties.

Soon they are breathless and Sherlock’s mouth is red, roughened by John’s stubble. They’ve barely even got their shirts open.

Soon they are asleep on the sofa, pressed together all along their lengths, bathed in candlelight and bliss.


	14. Chemical Reactivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has to know how John feels about him. And all emotions are chemical reactions. So clearly, the answer lies in chemistry. Obvious.

“OUCH!”

“Sorry! Sorry.” Sherlock curls his hand around the precious few hairs he plucked from John’s head.

“What in the name of fuck are you doing?”

Clearly John was not happy about having his afterglow disturbed by having four or five hairs ripped out . Distract, misdirect.

“Nothing. You weren’t asleep. Hardly. Not 15 minutes ago you were engaged in very rigorous physical activity, I’m sure you recall.”

John shoots him a glare. “You’d best not have any plans for cloning me or anything.”

Sherlock just raises his eyebrows, all innocence.

A few hours later, John is in stocking feet on the sofa with a beer in hand, fully engrossed in a football match. Sherlock feel a quite safe, therefore, in the kitchen with the door half shut and a wide range of hair samples collected from John Watson over the last few weeks. They are labeled by date, time, method of collection, and activities indulged in just prior to sampling (“chasing criminals, came free when I caressed his hair” / “masturbating in the shower, found stuck to the wall” / “sleeping, found on the pillow” / “sexual intercourse, plucked from the scalp” and so on.) Before him is an array of test tubes and various enzymatic compounds designed to detect the presence of neurotransmitters such as dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin. Sherlock is determined to discover whether or not John will stay. Emotions are just chemical reactions after all. For the past few months, since their first tentative kisses, Sherlock has felt a slow-motion supernova going off inside him. Obviously chemical. So clearly, if John feels likewise, it will be readily discernable in his tissues. He has to know if John is feeling the same. Has to.

On the other side of the test tubes is a matching collection of his own hair, collected as near as possible to identical situations and times of day, for comparison. He needs to know.

Sherlock is carefully tweezing one of John’s hairs into a test tube when a brush of fingers to the back of his neck startles him near out of his skin. He drops the tweezers and the precious hair. Dammit.

“Sorry! God, sorry, didn’t know you were so engrossed. What is this you’re --” John is leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder now.

“Nothing!” Sherlock stands and turns to face him, hoping to distract John entirely from the experiment on the table. “Nothing important. What happened to the football?”

That was obviously the wrong thing to say, and Sherlock is aware of this the moment it leaves his lips. John tilts his head suspiciously. “You don’t give a toss about football. And you wouldn’t have been so caught up in something unimportant.What are you up to?” Now John is craning his neck trying to see over Sherlock’s shoulder and that will never ever do. He grabs John’s arms and pushes him back against the worktop.

Tries to anyway. But John is quick and he is under Sherlock’s arm in half a moment and inspecting the plastic baggies on the table. His mouth falls open in mock outrage. “You complete berk! I knew you were experimenting on me!” 

Sherlock just closes his eyes in mortification and frustration. Weeks of work and now John’s just going to bin the whole thing. “Not on you,” he growls, “about you.”

“What’s this then, eh?” He picks up a baggie. “‘Drunk after a night out with Stamford, plucked without waking him’? You’ve been collecting my hairs? Is this for a case?”

“Not exactly.”

“For your website then? Four hundred and eighty two abnormal patterns of hair follicle growths?”

Sherlock sighs and stares at the ceiling. “I need to determine our relative levels of neurotransmitters under various circumstances. It’s important.”

“Neurotransmitters?” John goes quiet for a moment. Sherlock can feel himself pouting, staring at the floor and determinedly NOT kicking his feet like a sulking child. John just stands there for a while and Sherlock could not begin to guess what the good doctor might be deducing. 

“To hell with it,” Sherlock growls and bolts toward the bedroom.

“Sherlock, no, wait!” John catches him in the hall with a firm hand at his elbow. “I’m sorry. I just… did you… Were you trying to figure out if I’m… In love with you?”

All traces of mocking have gone from John’s voice now. He sounds… fond. Unbearably, incredibly, unbelievably fond. Sherlock risks looking at him, risks John reading what’s in his heart.

“Maybe.”

John grins, a flush in his cheeks, and brings his hands up to cup Sherlock’s shoulders. “You… Utter mad genius. I do, you know. Love you. And you could have just asked.”

“It’s more than that,” Sherlock forces himself to say. “You might only think you love me but merely be infatuated, and that would not be determinable by inquiry. I had to _know_ , John. Without question.” And now he never will.

John purses his lips and narrows his eyes at Sherlock. “You said you were looking for our relative levels.”

“Yes.”

“And that would tell you whether or not I was in love with you?”

“... Yes.”

“So what you’re saying is...that you are in love with me.” John’s voice is not entirely steady when he says this. Sherlock can only nod. John’s fingers tighten on his shoulders. “How do you know that?

Sherlock’s brow furrows. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. It should disturb him but it doesn’t. It’s like asking how he knows the English language, that this color Is green, or that fire is hot. It just is. It may be the antithesis of everything he holds dear as a scientist, but there it is. Unquestionable.

“I just do.”

John grins a blinding grin like he’s been brilliant. “Well then. There you are. I do too.”

“Do what?”

“Just… Know.”

It takes Sherlock a long time to process this information. John lets him. Finally Sherlock takes in a deep breath and puts his hands gently on John’s hips. 

“So. You’re… Not going to change your mind? About...this?” he asks.

John smiles and shakes his head, leaning in close enough that their noses brush with every nod. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Sherlock feels a tension unwind from the middle of him, and he sighs his relief into John’s hair.

Much much later, after John is safely in bed and snoring, Sherlock can be found at the kitchen table, watching solutions containing his and John’s hairs turning bright pink in adjacent beakers.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome all comments, constructive criticism included. This is writing practice, so if you feel so inclined, please don't hesitate to tell me what you think works and what doesn't. Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr at jemariel.tumblr.com


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